Air
by starbuckmeggie
Summary: A few moments of repose during a hectic campaign. Set during The Wedding in season 7.


In a different world, at a different time, this would technically be classified as a date.

No—technically, this _is_ a date. Technically. But under other circumstances, it would be an official thing. It's kinda weird to think of it that way. We've been to a million of these functions together but now, this would be a date. It's throwing me off.

When I got the invitation to Ellie Bartlet's wedding, I more or less dismissed it. Who had that kind of time? It's October—we're weeks away from the election. There's campaigning to do. I need to be on the road. The wedding didn't matter…until it did. All of the sudden the Congressman was talking about it, how he'd been asked to attend that he couldn't say no—he didn't _want_ to say no. He spoke as if my going was a foregone conclusion. I couldn't exactly turn it down. Then Donna mentioned that I could still campaign at the wedding; there'd be voters at the thing. The Democratic nominee at the sitting President's daughter's wedding could only look good. She wasn't wrong.

So, it was the most natural thing in the world for me to look at her and ask, "You want to come with me?" I mean, the invitation said, "Josh Lyman and guest," and she was usually my plus one at events in the White House, but…it'd been a long time since we'd done anything like this. That probably explained the startled look on her face when I asked, even making me repeat the question. I'm not sure if the "Who else would I go with?" did me any favors, but it didn't seem to hurt my case, either. I didn't give it much thought after that, even when Donna reminded me about my tux, which I promptly forgot. Not shockingly, she remembered, and it was waiting for me in the hotel when I got in earlier.

It wasn't until I knocked on her hotel room door and saw her standing there that something in my brain malfunctioned a little. I was wildly distracted by the million other things going on, but not so much that I couldn't notice that she looked unbelievable. She held my arm as we walked down to the limo, listening as I rambled on about electoral numbers and maps and trying to figure out where we should be spending money. She even, oddly, remained mostly quiet on the ride to the White House, seemingly lost in her own world as Leo, the Congressman, and I strategized and tried to plan for every possible instance. She very casually held onto my arm as we made our way into the building—I somehow managed to remember that I should be a gentleman and take her coat, which I did. After that, I got a phone call and ditched her. In my defense, I didn't really mean to, but it happened anyway. I think I saw her maybe once before the ceremony. I'm assuming she spent the time in between mingling and chatting with everyone—it's not like she doesn't still know a large portion of the people who regularly haunt the White House, and she never really has trouble making conversation with strangers.

Honestly, I don't know why she was still speaking to me when I finally made my way into my seat next to her. She just smiled at me and asked if everything was okay, with a look on her face that let me know _she_ knew more than she was letting on. I hardly had time to reassure her that all was more or less well before the ceremony started and we watched Ellie Bartlet walk down the aisle. It's been a long time since I've been to a wedding, least of all someone I've known so long. I was surprised to feel myself getting a little choked up. Maybe it's because I've watched her go from a college kid to an adult. Maybe it's because every time I talk to my mother, she asks thinly veiled questions about when I'm going to think about settling down, getting married, starting a family. Her inquiries have been less veiled since she found out Donna's in my life again.

I'd glanced over at Donna at some point, who was beaming at the soon to be newlyweds, looking more like a proud mother instead of someone just a few years older than the bride. I knew there was a strong possibility that my sudden emotional reaction had a lot to do with Donna, though not for reasons I wanted to investigate too closely. Being around her feels different now. She's very clearly not the barely-an-adult I met in New Hampshire during Bartlet for America.

And, in true Donna fashion, she seemed to know I was getting sentimental; she put her hand on my thigh, squeezing it gently, and it certainly distracted me. I even rested my hand on hers for a few seconds, feeling her delicate bones beneath my fingers before we went back to business as usual.

I sigh, my mind drifting back to the present, and I watch her work the room, treating each mucky-muck like they're the only person here, making them all feel special. It's a good thing this isn't a real date, but I'd be blowing it big time.

She's tried—lord knows she's tried. She sat with me at our assigned table, trying to get me to talk about the wedding, the weather, literally anything; for the most part, the best I could give her were unintelligible grunts. Mostly, I felt bad that I'd ignored her for most of the day, so the logical conclusion was to continue to treat her badly. When she went to mingle, all I could do was watch. Watch her make her way around the room. Watch her dance. Watch her smile and laugh. Feeling the familiar…whatever I've always felt when she's anywhere near another guy. Maybe if one of them was good enough for her, I could get a grip on it, but she can do better. She can do better than every yutz she talks to.

I'm not really sure what makes me think I'm good enough for her—history has proven that I, in fact, am not. I don't even know if she'd want me in that way. There have been some moments over the years where it felt like we could be a thing, but for the most part, I'm fairly certain it's been a one-sided crush. Any chance I might have had I've managed to blow in the last twelve months—turning her down for a job was probably the final nail in that coffin. I'm lucky she's even speaking to me at this point.

Which begs the question—if I'm at a wedding with the woman I've had impure thoughts about for the better part of a decade, why am I ignoring her? Why am I sitting at my table, nursing a glass of wine, while she talks to every man possible?

Well, first, that's not fair—she's not singling out one gender for conversation. I just happen to notice when she's in another man's company. Secondly, I'm chicken shit. I'm scared that if I try to make any sort of move on her at this point, she'll never speak to me again. I'm scared she'll reject me. I'm scared she actually hates me.

I'm scared that I'm just making excuses and that if I start something with Donna, I have to see it through. I can't half-way it with her.

Not to mention, I'm a little scared of Donna herself. She's become that girl I was too self-conscious to approach in high school. She's beautiful, she's smart, she's poised, she's confident…she's the head cheerleader and valedictorian all rolled into one. It's intimidating.

I clench my jaw, watching her accept someone's invitation to dance. It should be me out there with her, not some yahoo with wandering hands.

I shudder a little, thinking about wandering hands—more specifically, _my_ wandering hands. Not that I ever have, but I've thought about it. My God, I've thought about it. I've thought about it almost every day for at least six years. Before that, it was probably only every other day. I don't know anything about Donna underneath her suits or sweater sets or evening gowns or cute little dresses, but I've got a good imagination. I can guess at a lot. I'm sure none of it holds a candle to what she actually looks like, but my imagination keeps me moderately satisfied.

I really ought to get my mind out of the gutter. Not only is it wildly inappropriate in general, but I'm at the President's daughter's wedding. I'm pretty sure imaging your date naked is a bit of a faux pas.

What I need to do is pull my head out of my ass. We're only sort of friends again—well, I supposed we've moved past "sort of" by this point. She wouldn't have come with me if she was still shooting me the death glare. She's gone back to being my sounding board and the one person I know who's going to give me a fresh set of eyes. So, why am I not trying harder to actually _be_ her friend? We're in the middle of the election to end all elections, sure, but with all the time we have to spend in close quarters—whether on the bus or on the plane—we could be reconnecting more. She's always been good at taking my mind off of things, even if it was by inventing some goofy problem.

There's the rub, though. While that wasn't necessarily her job at that point, it's even less of her job now. She's not my handler. She no longer follows me around, making my life easier. She has real things of her own to deal with. Hell, _she_ probably needs an assistant of her own.

A glass of champagne appears before my eyes and I jump a little, startled. I follow the bare arm up, my eyes finding first a barely there brown dress, then soft, wavy blonde hair. I catch her eyes last and she smiles at me, though it looks a little uncertain.

"Thanks," I tell her as I take the glass, doing my best to smile in return.

"You all right?" she asks softly. "You look a little bored." She grabs the chair next to mine and something in my head clicks; I stand up quickly, almost knocking over my champagne in my haste to put it on the table. I grab the chair from her and pull it out, gently easing it back into position before I take my seat again, I can be horribly oblivious almost all of the time but, fortunately, some of my manners are deeply ingrained enough that they're almost impossible to ignore. I can almost feel my mother whacking my arm for not being more attentive and gentlemanly to my date, especially when that date is Donna.

"Just thinking," I answer, returning to my seat once I make sure she's settled. I grab my champagne flute and fiddle with the stem, cocking my head at the glass as a conversation floats back to me. "I thought you said they ran out of champagne."

"They did," she answers simply.

"Then…" I gesture to the glass, confused. "You didn't really run to the store for the First Lady, did you?"

She rolls her eyes, though she manages to look adorable. "No, Josh. Do you really think the President of the United States wouldn't be able to get a few dozen cases of champagne brought in to his daughter's wedding?"

I can't help but chuckle a little. "Touché." I hold out my glass to her, and she only hesitates for a second before clinking it against mine. I watch as she brings her glass to her lips, desperately wishing, for the first time in my life, that I was champagne. I don't know what it is about Donna lately compared to the years I've known her, but I don't think I've wanted anything in my life as badly as I want her lately. I'm hyperaware of her at all times, even down to her footfalls and her subtle perfume that I can pick out in a crowd. The thoughts really are wildly inappropriate, especially considering that I'm still her boss—even if it's less of a superior/subordinate role than we used to have.

I can dream, though.

"You look fantastic tonight," I tell her, almost amused as she nearly chokes on her champagne. I watch her throat bob as she swallows heavily. "I don't know if I've told you that."

She shakes her head slowly, a smile curving at the corner of her mouth. I need to make more of an effort to compliment her. The smile she gives me in response is always worth its weight in gold. "Thanks," she answers, taking another sip. "You clean up pretty good yourself. Who'd you get to do your bowtie?"

I grunt a little in mild irritation. "I can tie it myself, thank you very much."

She giggles—actually giggles—and puts her glass down. "Well, that explains it."

"What?"

She grins and shifts until she's facing me. "Turn."

"Why?"

"Josh."

"What?"

"Just turn."

I swivel in my seat, my body pivoting without any real conscious choice on my part. She immediately slides in between my parted legs, scooting closer, and I'm sure she can see me swallowing nervously as her hands reach for the thing scrap of material at my neck. She plucks at it, fluffing it up, pulling at the sides to straighten it, and I can see her forehead crease in concentration. Finally, she sighs and gives it a tug, and I feel it come loose.

"For the record," she says, her nimble fingers going through the motions, something she's been able to do without thinking for years. "You actually _can't_ tie one of these yourself."

"It was fine," I insist, even though I tilt my head up so she can access my neck easier.

She huffs out a tiny laugh, her warm breath hitting my skin—it's enough to send shivers down my spine. "I can assure you it was not."

I can't help but chuckle in response, my hands coming to rest on her knees before I even realize what I'm doing. "Guess I'm lost without you."

"Clearly." I feel her pulling at my tie once more, though she looks less irritated with it this time, and I realize what I said. I don't think she took it to heart, but it hits me like a punch to the gut. It's completely true. I _am_ lost without her. I spent close to a year floundering around without her, pushing myself to the breaking point, keeping myself busy so I didn't have to think about her. Easier said than done, especially when she became the face of the other campaign.

She gives my tie a few more tugs before leaning back a tiny bit, smile with satisfaction. "There." She reaches up and brushes my shoulders, smoothing out my jacket, something else she does without thinking, and for the first time it really hits me just how inappropriate the tow of us behaved while working here. Not in a sexual harassment suit kind of way—though I'll admit that I probably toed that line once or twice and I'm lucky she was annoyed by me and didn't feel the need to turn me in—but definitely in a way that wasn't standard boss/assistant behavior. If I had to give it a name, I'd call it closer to husband and wife behavior, or at least significant other behavior.

I suppose the honest answer is that she _was_ my significant other, though maybe not in the widely understood definition of that term. I don't know what else to call someone that you spend most of your day with, that you talk to constantly when they're not around, that you eat most of your meals with, and that, in general, you just want to be around. I guess in retrospect, I can see why people speculated about us.

"Better?" I manage to ask, reaching up to tug at the tie. She immediately bats my hands away, straightening it again.

"Much," she answers, tilting her head just a little, looking up to smile at me. For about the millionth time, I'm taken aback by her eyes. At first glance, they appear to be blue, and indeed, depending on what she's wearing or even at times her mood, they can be very blue. But actually, when you take the time to really look, they're kind of aquamarine, alternating between colors almost at will, sometimes almost completely green, but mostly that love shade in between. No matter what the color, they actually have the power to rend me speechless.

It feels like such an odd thing to go goo-goo over, but Donna's eyes do it. I'm helpless against them. Her eyes and her smile. And her—

Damn it. I shake myself out of my reverie, forcing myself to blink a few times. It doesn't help much. I'm still captivated.

I really am quite pathetic.

I smile at her, giving her knee a little squeeze before I stand. "Do you want to dance?"

Her eyes grow wide, her face filled with shock. "What?"

I hold out my hand to her. "Do you want to dance? With me?"

She hesitates, looking at me oddly. "We don't usually dance at things like this."

"Sure we do." She looks at me dubiously. "Sometimes we do." She's still looking at my hand like it's going to reach out and pinch her. "We don't have to dance if you'd rather not."

Before the disappointment overwhelms me, her hand slides into mine, her fingers squeeze mine gentle. "I'd love to dance."

My grin makes my cheeks hurt. I give her a gentle tug, pulling her up to my side. Instead of letting go of her hand, I slide my fingers through hers, reveling at the feel of it. As corny as it sounds, even in my own head, we fit together perfectly. Her hand feels right in mine. Hell, it's probably not the first time we've held hands like this, but it's the first time I've thought about it, or rather, the first time I've allowed myself to think about it.

Donna, for her part, keeps herself pressed to my side, the warmth of her body finding its way through my jacket and shirt. I wonder for a few moments how anyone with as much skin exposed as she has right now can be so warm, but I chalk it up to the crowded room and her status as social butterfly. I shake away that bitter thought as soon as it appears. She's with me right now, and if I hadn't been doing my damndest to brook and sulk all afternoon, she wouldn't have had the need to wander around and dance with every goober that crossed her path.

I don't let go of her hand—only readjust my grip on it as I pull her into me. Her arm goes around my shoulders, and my other hand slides to her waist, resting lower on her back than it probably should in public, or, considering that at this moment, I'm only her boss and we've done nothing to indicate that I should feel free to take "liberties" with her body.

Of course, if she tells me to move my hand, I absolutely will. Instead, she steps a little closer to me, her body pressing ever so slightly against mine, and I immediately start listing republicans in my head, trying to distract myself. What the hell is happening with me? I've been around Donna million times in all sorts of situations—including dancing—and I've never had this reaction to her. Well…yes, I have, but not so immediate. I'm very aware of her and it's killing me. Maybe it's because, for nearly a year, I _didn't_ see her on a daily basis. I couldn't immunize myself to her, or get a regular fix. More likely, though, it's because I'm wildly attracted to her. There's no getting around that. I was when we worked together the first time, too, but it was easier to compartmentalize it. Now, even though I'm still her superior, she's not exactly at the level of vulnerable assistant. We're on an even playing field, and it's wreaking havoc on my brain.

I feel her fingers lightly stroking the back of my neck and electric shocks course through my system. Suddenly, thinking about republicans isn't enough to keep away the impure thoughts. I feel my groin tighten ever so slightly, and I can't help but feel disgusted with myself. I'm an adult. I should be able to control myself around women, even when that woman is Donna. She shouldn't have to worry about feeling a boner pressing into her thigh as she's trying to enjoy her evening.

God help me, she moves even closer to me. I'm going to die. This is how it all ends.

"Know what I heard?" she asks suddenly.

"Hmm?" I answer, wildly distracted by the fact that I can actually feel her breath on my neck.

"The groom's band from college is going to be playing later."

It takes a few extra moments but her words manage to make it through my hazy mind. For the first time, I actually hear the music playing. I'm sure I was vaguely aware of it on some level, but it certainly never penetrated on a conscious level. I honestly can't even identify what song we're dancing to.

"Wait—huh?"

She pulls back a little and grins, and I instantly mourn the loss of her face close to mine. "Apparently, Vic was in some college band his buddies are playing a little later on. They wanted to play the whole time but I guess everyone compromised with the orchestra playing for the dignitaries and those other guys playing for whomever is left at the end of the night."

"Are they that bad?"

She shrugs, looking amused by the entire situation. "No idea, though unless they've been playing together regularly since college, I doubt they're that good. And, apparently, 'Baby Got Back' is part of their repertoire."

"So what?"

She gives me an odd look. "So, 'Baby Got Back,' Josh."

"Yeah, saying the name again doesn't really clear up anything."

"Sir Mix-A-Lot?"

"What words are you saying to me?"

"You're telling me that you've never heard 'Baby Got Back'?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"You're screwing with me."

"I'm old, Donna."

"It's from the early nineties. You weren't completely ancient then."

"Thank you."

"You started it."

"Seriously, I've never heard it. What's it about?"

I'll be damned if her cheeks don't turn the faintest shade of pink. "It's about appreciating women's asses and curves, though a little, you know, dirtier."

"Yeah, I think I'd remember that one."

She rolls her eyes, though a smile spreads across her face. "You've got to look into these magic devices called CDs, Josh. Or an iPod. That could hold a bunch of music for you to expose yourself to."

My brain trips on the world "expose," and I blame that on hearing Donna say, "asses and curves." "I'll take your word for it."

"You're impossible," she tells me, shaking her head. Before I can answer, the music comes to a stop and everyone on the floor turns and applauds the orchestra. Very reluctantly, I let her go and clap half-heartedly, though I watch her out of the corner of my eye. I'd swear she's glowing, clapping for the musicians with enough enthusiasm for the entire room, grinning from ear to ear. She's absolutely breathtaking.

The applause dies down and the music starts up again. She turns to me, the expression on her face mostly unreadable, though her mouth turns down a little. "I guess we should…" she says, gesturing vaguely to the tables.

"Do you want to keep dancing?" I ask, the question spilling out of my mouth before I have a chance to over think the whole situation.

Fortunately, she doesn't leave me to twist in the wind. She miles at me brightly, nodding vigorously, and resituates herself against me. I grab her hand and tuck it against my chest. I feel her sigh and I swallow heavily as she presses her entire body to mine. There's not a whisper of space between us. I'm sure we look wildly unprofessional. I don't think anyone else is dancing this closely, not even Ellie and her new husband. I really ought to create a little distance between us.

Instead, I tighten my arm around her waist, my fingers holding onto her hip possessively. In for a penny, in for a pound. She may not be mine in the real world, but in this moment, I can sure as hell pretend.

"Seriously," she says quietly, her mouth so close to my ear that her lips actually brush against it. "Is everything all right?"

I let out a sigh, gathering my thoughts. I'd managed to push the events of earlier today out of my head for a while, Donna unintentionally doing her part to distract me for a while. "Yeah. Yeah, everything's okay."

"They didn't—"

"No."

"So you're still…"

"Yeah."

Her arm tightens around my shoulders, somehow pulling us even closer together. "Good. Because if you're out, I'm out."

Her words make my throat tighten. "Donna…"

"If you're out, I'm out."

I don't know what she's trying to tell me. Am I supposed to take that at face value, or is there something deeper I need to interpret? Would she really give up her job for me? I sure as hell wouldn't encourage it, but it's not like I've ever been able to stop her from doing anything. The woman hired herself as my assistant tried to convince me it was already a done deal. She's capable of anything she sets her mind to.

Truthfully—shamefully—part of me is really touched that she'd leave the campaign if I'd been fired. It's the first real indication that the bond and devotion that we used to share is returning. It makes me want to hold onto her with both hands and never let go.

"Ditto," I tell her suddenly, unable to think of another way to express that I'd do the same thing for her. Hell, it was only a year ago that I essentially did the same thing—the only thing I'd change is that I wish we'd left together.

She hums a little, sounding content, and rests her head on my shoulder. Her face is turned from me, but that's probably for the best—I don't know if I'd be able to resist doing something stupid if I could see her right now.

I let out a long breath and tilt my head, resting it against hers. We're hardly even dancing now—just slightly swaying. It's more like a hug. Every moment she's in my arms, I feel the pieces of my shattered mind and soul melting back together, trying to make me whole again. All I can let myself think about is this moment—not where we've been or where we could be, but just trying to appreciate that she's back in my life, and for now…it'll have to be enough.

* * *

I wish I could remember all the reasons I titled this "Air," but it's gone forever in the recesses of my mind. I know part of it is in reference to "Air on the G String," which is a lovely piece of music, and very often played at weddings, but also humorous because of that whole G-string thing. It was also about the air between Josh and Donna clearing, and maybe the feeling of being light, at least between the two of them.

I wondered, after many viewings of season 7, what Donna was doing at the wedding. While it's possible other people from the Santos campaign are there, we don't see them, and I wondered if Donna would be singled out for an invitation. I thought this might be something of an explanation for that.

I'm in the midst of writing…something. Currently, it's 15,000 words of an oddly cobbled together story. It just keeps shooting off into this tangents of things that come to mind that might be something Josh and Donna would have to deal with, and hopefully plausibly in one afternoon/evening. Not extreme things like rushing into burning buildings and jumping out of airplanes, but just things that pop up in the course of a relationship. I'm telling you this so you'll keep your expectations low when I post it, which will likely be before I post the side-by-side stories I mentioned a while back.


End file.
